


Against Expectations

by ifdragonscouldtalk



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Multi, Other, Tony Stark Angst, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-12-03 09:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifdragonscouldtalk/pseuds/ifdragonscouldtalk
Summary: Soulmates were special, and unique. Everyone had one, or two, names on their skin. Tony? He had five, six, seven- more and more. And he hated himself for it.Because how could anyone love him back?





	1. One

It was expected that Tony didn’t have any pools or hot tubs, after Afghanistan. It was also expected that he wouldn’t want to expose himself all that much with the arc reactor. And before… before it hadn’t mattered. The girls he slept with didn’t care at all, and he never left the lights on and they were always too drunk to remember, so it never mattered much.

It was completely humiliating, absolutely disgusting. His body was ugly. He hated to look at it. He only thanked God that they were all easy to hide.

And no one questioned the fact that he never talked about it with them, because he acted as if he had no heart in the first place, and he was good at that. He always had been. It was self preservation.

It was honestly ridiculous. It defied all logic and everything he knew, and he hated that, and he hated that he couldn’t fix it, and he hated that he  _hated_ his body.

Because it hadn’t been hard to hide before the Avengers. A bit of makeup here and there, and that was that. But now… now he was terrified. Completely mortified someone would discover that Tony Stark had a heart, and it was far, far too big to be contained behind the arc reactor.

Ana and Edwin’s names had appeared first. He was four, five maybe. Those were both written just under the waistband of his jeans, easy to hide. He had been completely ecstatic that the two people who he cared about most, who cared about him most, who took care of him through sickness and sadness when his parents were away, were his soulmates. They were, understandably, surprised that their names had been scrawled across the hips of their young master. He could see their shock the first time he told them, and was afraid he had done something wrong, but they recovered quickly, and never treated him any differently. They were affectionate, and he never questioned why they asked him to keep it a secret, because they knew what was best for him. It was only later when he learned how incredibly  _unusual_  it was, not only because of the age, not only because there were two of them, but because his was not on their skin. He only found out after their deaths. When lovers asked, he told them they were real tattoos he had gotten to honor some people he’d lost. They didn’t question it.

JARVIS was next. At first he was confused, mortified and completely humiliated that an A.I. could be his soulmate. That wasn’t possible, was it? Perhaps his soul was different. He had been broken upon creation, the marks on his skin didn’t mean anything. That was printed along his right shoulder, easy to hide with some good makeup, and it became part of his morning routine to cover the mark. JARVIS knew, obviously, because JARVIS could see it whenever it wasn’t covered. But the A.I. never mentioned it. Maybe his computer was just as stumped as he was.

Rhodey was soon after that, a practiced signature on the inside of his right wrist. Mortification morphed into humiliation and he was so, so very confused. Because really, he didn’t think about Rhodey like that. Yes, he loved Rhodey, but not in a way that he was told soulmates were supposed to, and he knew for a fact Rhodey didn’t feel that way about him. He began designing his own makeup to cover the marks, almost irremovable, waterproof and smudge proof.

Yinsen was a surprise, and took him off guard, when he found the small scrawl near the edge of his arc reactor. Luckily, it looked enough like discolored skin that no one, Yinsen or anyone else, gave it the second look to see what it really was, but perhaps that plagued him as much as anything else when he got back. And the fact that he had lost him. He covered that name out of self preservation, and wished there was a way to cut it out of him.

Perhaps it said something that Obie’s name never appeared on his skin. Perhaps his soul knew what his brain didn’t. But he couldn’t help but think that the names were mocking him – he had never met anyone with his name as well. They meant nothing. They were only a cause of pain. He started to hate his own skin.

Pepper’s was the only one he felt no desire to cover up. He wore it loud and proud, front and center over his heart, her loopy scrawl perfect with a small heart over his own. He loved it, and the way Pepper lit up whenever she saw it. But the longer their relationship went on, the more the mark seemed to pain her, and he started to hate that one as well. He never let her see his others. He couldn’t hurt her like that. He would suffer alone.

He never asked her where his name was, if she even had it.

Happy’s was small and unobtrusive, on his chest just under his right arm. Professional, looping,  _ridiculous_. This was getting  _ridiculous_!

Coulson was never meant to appear, but he did. The name never faded after the agent’s death, and that’s when Tony knew he was completely broken. He didn’t like going to doctors, seeing their faces when they noticed his many names. Often tears dripped down onto the signature on his left thigh, when he knew he was broken and the world was against him. That didn’t matter, because the makeup was waterproof, but he knew it was there, as strong as ever even after the shattering death. None of it made sense, but he supposed it wasn’t supposed to. It was only the universe toying with him.

He  _felt_  Steve’s name appear on him the first time they met eyes, a sharp burning along his right collar, and Jesus Christ he had never been more glad for the cut of his shirts, because otherwise that would be incredibly difficult to hide. Steve’s was neat, unobtrusive, uniform and perfect. Just like the man. And he hated it. And he hated himself. He started waking up earlier and covering up more carefully.

Bruce’s shaved itself into his skin when Hulk woke him up after the Battle of Manhattan, an untidy scrawl along the left side of his stomach, and that was when he vowed he would never take his shirt off in front of them. He would wear an undershirt with a hole cut out so they could access the arc reactor if necessary, although he didn’t particularly want them seeing the arc reactor either, but he was completely convinced no amount of makeup could cover his self hatred and shame.

Shawarma afterwards, with the others dozing around him as he carefully shifted his ribs to see if he could take the suit off; that was when the rest appeared, a physical pain that almost tore at his heart in complete disgrace. He managed not to let it show. He found them in the mirror later, in the dead of night when only JARVIS could see; Thor’s blocky letters on the back of his left shoulder, Natasha’s professional cursive on the inside of his right thigh, and Clint, damn him, had taken up residence with a tramp stamp, because  _of course_  he had.

He couldn’t let them see. No way he would let them see.

Being the master of masks and excuses, he always managed to wheedle his way out of group activities which involved any sort of skin exposure, and perhaps the others caught on to it, because Pepper started making more comments about how nice his body was and he had the sneaking suspicion they had been talking to her behind his back. Luckily Pepper was normally too busy for sex, or too much enjoying herself to look closely. He was starting to slip, and he knew it. There was too much responsibility, too much shame, too many flashbacks and too much heartache, and too many _names_ , and he couldn’t cover them all, hell he couldn’t even reach Thor’s and Clint’s.

And then Bucky. Sweet, broken Bucky. Stumbling into the tower one day beat up and bloody, ready to spill secrets and sins and begging for respite. Tony was nearly as hysterical as Barnes at that point, if he was being honest, and meeting his eyes…

It seared across the back of his neck, possessive, right under his hairline. It was covered, thank God. The only way he could see it was for JARVIS to take a picture for him. Bucky’s handwriting was neat, surprisingly so, with a bit of a shake at the end of the ‘y’ and ‘s’ in his name.

And then Pepper, leaving.

And then. And then. And then.

And he was tired. He was so tired. He had lived a long time, too long, he should be dead, why wasn’t he  _dead_ , why couldn’t he stop living on  _borrowed time_. And it didn’t matter anymore, it didn’t.

He was careless.

He got drunk.

He washed clean.

And the next morning, there was an attack. He went to battle like that, in his boxers inside the suit. And that… that was a mistake. That was the biggest mistake of his life.

Of course it was some magic user, of course they had teamed up with MODOK. It hurt, Jesus Christ the others didn’t understand, ithurtto be  _torn_  out of the armor like that, to have the reactor strain in his chest to remain where it was supposed to be. To fall in a heap on the pavement, exposed to the world. To look up and realize that there was no way you could hide anymore.

Somewhere, distantly, Bucky screamed in rage. Natasha was cursing in various languages. Hulk was making the buildings shake with his anger.

Tony’s shoulders trembled. They had seen. There was no mistaking that they had seen.  _God_ , he doesn’t have to look, those reactions are clear enough. They  _hate_  him. He’s such a fucking _freak_.

JARVIS showed up to defend him, his spare suits flying in rage and glory. Beautiful. At least the things Tony made were beautiful. At least the things Tony made had to love him.

He sat there, cold, _crying_ , until hands started to touch his shoulders, guide him to his feet. The team. They were staring at him. Of course they were. He was a freak.

But then Bucky reverently touched the back of his neck, hands shaking, where he knew the man’s name to reside. And their expressions all morphed into something Tony wasn’t adept enough in emotions to read, gently trailing their fingers over their names. Bruce was wrapped in a blanket and started to cry.

“Oh, Tony. Oh, Tony!”

Tony shivered. He knew it was disgusting. They didn’t have to cry about it.

“Coulson,” Clint breathed, tracing gently over the name, making Tony shudder with his touch.

“He’s dead,” Tony responded, his voice cracking, and the tears were back, God, how  _embarrassing_  could he  _be_? “He’s dead. I’m a freak. I know. Please. Please don’t leave. I don’t have anything left.”

Steve frowned, glancing up at the others, before carefully rolling up his right sleeve, licking his thumb and rubbing at the skin there on his wrist. And Tony watched, not sure what he was feeling, as his name appeared like magic. Small, neat, like he had been taught by his father. Unobtrusive. Permanent. Binding.

And he watched in wonder, as the others held out their right arms, rolling up their sleeves and rubbing at the makeup there, and his name… His name… There were so many names. One on each of them.  _Oh God,_  how had he not  _known_?

“We didn’t want to overwhelm you,” Bucky breathed, his voice as reverent as his touch. “God, Tony, you… You’ve been hiding this all this time?” Tony nodded, his throat thick, his eyes hot.

“It’s disgusting.” It came out more like a cracking question. Natasha, who hadn’t taken her fingers off her name, rubbing over it endearingly, shook her head.

“Beautiful,” she breathed.

Tony cried.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally did more hahaha and y'all thought I couldn't continue things I've started (you're right)  
> Dedicated to kiernaserea

He was sat on the couch, his knees drawn up to his chest, unmoving, cold, staring at nothing on the coffee table. He itched for the burn of alcohol on his tongue, senseless skin against his, but he _couldn’t_. They wanted him to be _better_ , _he_ wanted him to be better, he wanted to be better for them. So he sat, blank and empty and utterly numb, staring at nothing on the coffee table and wishing the tears would stop burning down his cheeks, itching across his chin, if only so they couldn’t remind him he was alive and feeling.

He felt more than heard Natasha enter, her soft presence changing the very air of the room, making it a bit less cold and a bit more breathable. She sat next to him, quiet, gentle, and leaned close, brushing the curls off his temple and leaning over to watch his raining eyes, her own shining with brilliance and intelligence and _God,_ she was gorgeous. He didn’t deserve her. His body started to shiver gently, against his will.

“You’re okay,” she breathed, tucking herself closer, sharing her heat and brushing gentle kisses over his temple, cheek, the corner of his eye, the curls above his ear. “You’re okay, love.” He licked his lips, swallowed, trying to get his vocal cords to work when he desperately didn’t want to speak, but ended up with a jerk of his head instead. “You are. You’re not _fine_. But you’re okay. You will be fine.” He licked his lips again, his mouth dry, tasting the salt of his tears, and sniffled weakly, trying to choke back a sob. She tucked her knees under his, playing gently with the curls on the nape of his neck, and being this close to someone shouldn’t feel so _good_ and _right_ but it did.

Neither looked up when the soft padding of heavy feet came closer, indicating a sock-footed Steve Rogers.

Steve knelt down in front of him, studying him curiously, like he was a work of tortured art (which he knew he wasn’t, even if Natasha liked to call him beautiful). “It’s okay, darling,” he said finally, his voice soft and soothing, as he moved to sit on his other side, wrapping a warm arm around his waist and making Tony realize how cold and numb he actually was. “Want to tell us what’s wrong?” He swallowed, jerking his head again and sobbing weakly. He didn’t _know_ what was wrong; he only knew what had set him off, but that wasn’t what was _wrong_. There were so many things that were wrong. “Okay, that’s fine sweetheart. You’re gonna be okay.” He choked back another sob as the blond pressed a firm kiss to his other temple, Natasha’s nose pressed to his cheek, feeling their breath against his skin, _alive_ , _important_ , and so very _real_. He turned his face into Natasha’s neck, sobs bursting free, as he pressed his back against Steve’s chest, seeking their comfort. He wrapped his arms tight around the Widow’s waist as Steve pulled them both close, pressing against Tony as much as he could, gentle hands rubbing up and down his sides, pressing gently on the knots in his back, both the lovers crooning gently to him, reassuring him that it was _okay_ , and that he would be perfectly fine.

He whined when Steve pulled away but settled when the heavy blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, smelling like Bruce and soothing some of the numbness away. Steve came back then, and a soft kiss was pressed to the top of his head. He glanced up from Natasha’s shoulder with watery eyes to see the other genius smiling gently down at him, his hand coming to rest softly on his dark curls.

“Hard day?” Bruce asked mildly, still smiling. He nodded. “It’ll get better.” He returned his face to Nat’s shoulder, sniffling, calming. He couldn’t think bad things when his soulmates were there, soothing his fears, kissing the depression away. Natasha had her nose pressed to his forehead, whispering a litany of soft poetry into his skin, and Steve’s chest rose and fell against his back, regular and strong and grounding.

It could’ve been hours, or only a few minutes later, when a cool hand on his ankle drew him out of Natasha’s scent, startling him away from her shoulder. He saw her smile wryly and glanced down at Bucky, who was smirking slightly. “Hey doll. Feelin’ bad?” He sniffled, his tears finally done, and nodded, still not feeling very verbal. “I’ve got just the thing. Hold on, alright.” Tony nodded again, settling back against Steve, sighing gently and closing his eyes happily as the blond rubbed his fingers reverently against his name scrawled against Tony’s collar and pressed a gentle kiss to his neck. A few minutes later Bruce was back, pressing a warm cup of hot chocolate into his hands which he sipped at obediently, relishing in the feeling of warmth and sugar spreading through him and chasing away the festering thing in his chest, if only momentarily.

Bruce settled on the floor in front of them and they watched as Bucky and Clint came back in, dragging blankets and pillows behind them and shoving the coffee table out of the way. They carefully arranged the soft things into something warm and inviting, and grinned at him when they stepped back, finished. “Heard you could use some cuddles,” Clint said, stepping forward and leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his lips that warmed him better than any hot drink ever could. “I aim to please.” He smiled weakly, feeling so _loved_ it was almost overwhelming, and squeaked when Bucky lifted him effortlessly and settled him into the middle of the nest, sighing happily as his soulmates crawled in and curled around him, warm and _full_ in a way that was hard to describe.

“ _What would you like to watch, sir?_ ” JARVIS asked, voice full of warmth and concern and amusement. Tony waved a hand, and the screen in front of them turned into something sappy with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds, and that was _perfect_ . He turned to Natasha, who was still nestled up against his side, pressing his nose to hers and staying there, feeling their breath brush each other's lips, until she gently tipped forward and pressed her lips to his, reverent and careful and oh so gentle, and he could’ve cried all over again. He felt Bucky’s arms wrap around his waist, strong and solid, and Clint’s legs tangled with his, warm and comforting and nothing sexual about it, just firm and _present_.

“I love you,” he finally said after Natasha had leaned back, more of a croak than anything, his voice cracking with emotion and disuse, and he felt each of his soulmates shift. “I love you. _Fuck_ , I fucking love you.” A sob escaped him again, and Bucky tipped his chin back, kissing him gently and warmly and full of need and emotion.

“Jesus, Tony,” Clint said breathlessly, and he felt a hand sneak under his shirt to rub against his name like a worship, grounding and _important_ , because he knew exactly what Clint meant by it. _We’ve come so far_.

And then Bruce was leaning over him, staring down at him seriously, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“We love you too, Anthony Edward Stark. We absolutely adore you, and you deserve the world, you understand? This will pass, and by damn we’ll help you through it.” Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as he stared up at the scientist, and he reached a shaking hand up to cup his face.

“I can’t believe I got you,” he whispered, and felt his lovers move closer, a silent protest and strong reminder that he was stuck with them no matter what now. And that they wanted to be stuck with him too.

“ _I love you too, sir_ ,” JARVIS spoke after a moment, and Tony felt hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest until his face was buried in Bruce’s shirt, sobs and giggles mixing together in a turmoil of emotion.

“I love you,” he choked out. “I love you, I love you. Jesus, I love you.” Six voices were babbling back at him over the sound of Sandra and Ryan arguing, and it was warm and real and _perfect_.


End file.
